


Planet of L

by Jakowic



Series: The Peloria IV Files [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Planet, Fake Marriage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24266941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic
Summary: “Chill out, I have a plan.”“Agoodplan?” Dick asks suspiciously.Jason rolls his eyes. “Yes, agoodplan.”-Jason gets arrested for murder on a inter-planetary diplomacy trip. The penalty for the murder of a high-level (alien) government official is, naturally, death. Unless you’re married.This, it turns out, was actually the bad plan.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Series: The Peloria IV Files [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812319
Comments: 9
Kudos: 89





	Planet of L

**Author's Note:**

> kind of inspired by If Through A Door by jibrailis
> 
> originally posted jun 18 2020, beta'd and reposted wayyy later
> 
> planet of love seemed too Richard siken-y for what is ultimately a fight-then-fuck fic so it remains Planet of L (which suits Jason much better in my opinion)

It's the clanging that wakes Jason from his stupor. He's got the biggest hangover in the world, crushing his head and sealing his eyes shut with glue. The sound reverberates through Jason's aching bones, and his teeth rattle, his brain locking down and firmly refusing to cooperate as some sort of defense mechanism against the outside world. His mouth feels gross, the residual taste of garlic on the backs of his teeth.

There's more noise, and there's bright light through the lids of Jason's eyes, white and clinical. Jason makes a weak sound -- might be a whimper. His brain rolls, and rolls, and rolls, a perpetual loading screen as he tries to get back online, and oh fuck, _where am I,_ and catalogs his body. Toes - check. No breaks in his legs. No immediate aches out of place. His fingers flex when he orders them to (no handcuffs), he counts his garlicky teeth with his tongue and twitches his nose, feels the tacky glue of his domino mask still in place. He's still got his jacket, the heavy weight of it familiar on his shoulders. He flexes his thighs and notes that his guns are missing, so is the weight of his knife usually pressed against his ankle bone in his boot.

His League training kicks in and Jason elects to play dead until he figures out what's going on. 

Let's see: recent memory?

Dick and Damian's faces behind their masks, Damian's face in a sharp scowl, Dick's voice: "Why are _we_ on a diplomatic mission? I mean, I'm the goddamn Saint Wayne of this fucked up household but these two? C'mon, that's just not smart. Just because I'm the odd one out in terms of people skills doesn't mean I can automatically compensate for stunted squared--" and Bruce's no-nonsense voice cutting through his complaints.

"You are going to Peloria IV in my place because I told you to. This is a diplomacy mission, so no violence, you two. Yes, this is a test."

Landing on the planet. The green of the oceans as the ship broached the atmosphere. How Jason had thought it looked a bit like Hawaii, a whole planet of tropical vacation destinations, the mainland lush and expansive, at the center a giant volcano sizzling hot with magma and smoke spiraling up to meet their ship. The air heavy and humid, Jason soaking under his Hood almost immediately when they step off the ramp.

Being greeted by a yellow alien with broad features, beefy arms, towering at least three feet above Jason. He carries their bags, takes them to a palace (a palace, and Jason's twinge of discomfort at expensive things sharps at the center of his spine), and explains the intricacies of Peloria IV and exactly what their role will be. Two weeks of trying his best to not disappoint, because he agreed to this -- under duress, yes, but also because some part of him that's still juvenile and desperate wants to please Bruce, and what the fuck, it doesn't hurt that his favorite member of the bat-bird mess is here -- and Jason doesn't do jobs halfway.

Jason doesn't remember leaving the planet, so. 

More clanging. Jason rotates his ankles. He's not cuffed up. Not tied down. But he was obviously drugged, and Jason's starting to think it might've been of his own volition. He opens his eyes and is confronted with the familiar sight of a jail cell. It's disturbing, how close this looks to Earth jail, and basically confirms Jason's suspicions about why he feels like he'd just partied to death. He probably had. 

"Oh for the love of-- Will you just _let me see him?_ " Dick's voice cuts through the puttering of alien-typical jail.

There's a grunt, then a Pelorion's raspy voice and their unintelligible language. They took his translator, Jason realizes as he sits up gingerly on his cot. He feels sticky and a little dizzy. He blinks, hard, the lenses of his domino shuttering with his eyes as he tries to squint away the crust on his eyelids. His boots touch the obsidian floor of the cell with the tiniest sound of a scuff. Jason misses the feel of his guns warm against his thighs. He flexes his hands.

A Pelorian guard lumbers up to Jason's cell, wearing the customary outfit: a thin loincloth and a metal helmet, holding nothing but a spear. Dick's right behind him, wearing plainclothes and his Nightwing mask, face set into an unconvincing impression of Bruce's displeasure. Even if he's really mad he can't quite make it look real, and Jason's too nauseous to make fun of him for that.

"Jason," Dick says, voice sharp and, oh _shit,_ concerned, "did you murder someone last night?"

And Jason, a bit dizzy and underfed and definitely dehydrated, goes, "Um. What?"

He looks down at his hands, and they're red with blood. His clothes are splattered with it, his jacket stained in brand-new places with the congealed thick of it, his boots are caked with it. Dick's looking at him, face open and mouth pressed so thin it looks bloodless, and Jason can imagine the color of his eyes. The smell hits him then, Pelorian blood in his hair, all over him.

He leans over and vomits.

***

"I swear to fuck, I don't know what you're talking about!"

"How could I possibly believe that?" Dick snarls an hour later. Damian's standing behind him, arms crossed as he looks from Dick to Jason in his cell, from Jason to Dick pacing the corridor outside Jason's cell.

"Um, because I'm telling the truth?"

"So let me get this straight," Dick says, stopping on a dime and lacing his fingers through his hair. "Two weeks on this planet, you've been the most upstanding diplomat in the galaxy, hanging out with military generals and whatever -- getting close with Fiar Min Starak, in particular -- on your best behavior, learning Pelorian culture and being charming. Only, you disappear on Friday night and don't show up to the dinner banquet, and neither does Starak, until a guard finds you in his room, lying next to his fucking disemboweled remains, covered in his blood! And you don't know what I'm talking about!"

Min is dead? That sucks, Jason had liked Min a lot, one of those few upstanding men on the Pelorian Mainland's council, his idealism and willingness to do the right thing no matter what, made him and Jason kind of kindred spirits.

"Are we still keeping the Earth calendar?" Jason asks, because that's what he chooses to focus on.

Dick stares at him like he's stupid, mouth opening and closing without anything leaving it. He clenches his fingers tighter in his hair, and the mask's lenses narrow into slits at Jason, which means he's probably closed his eyes.

"You're being indicted by aliens for murder!" Damian bursts out. "We've failed Father's mission and you've-- you're-- it's because of _you,_ Todd! Take this seriously!"

"I am," Jason snaps. There's a headache blooming behind his eyes. "And fuck him, by the way, sending me to a planet where I get framed for murder."

"You're being framed?" Dick asks, and Jason tries not to get too offended at the incredulity of his tone.

"You think I'd murder an alien official on their home planet?"

"Jason, you murder whoever you want! How am I supposed to know?"

That... that actually stings. "Oh, _fuck_ you," he yells. "Your judgey high horse! I'm the only person who's willing to actually do what it takes to change anything about the world and you-- oh, _your fucking golden spoon._ Shove it up your ass. I can't fucking believe you don't believe me! I don't know what happened! I don't remember Friday at all!"

Dick makes a sound of wordless frustration. Jason's not trying to be difficult, there's just a gaping hole in his memory, and he doesn't ever remember wanting to kill Min. The real thing that's making them so high-strung hangs between them, heavy in the hair, like a weight.

Pelorians aren't by any means a barbaric people. They are incredibly technologically advanced, which is why they survive on a land with an active volcano that constantly leaks magma. They just abide by an ancient culture, a specific set of traditions that amount to this: if you commit a crime, you're allowed trial by combat. Unless you've committed murder, in which case you are unequivocally set to execution.

So, this is how the infamous Red Hood goes out. Talia would probably laugh in his face. She spent seven years whipping him into an assassin to rival herself, trained him extensively in poison, taught him martial arts he didn't know existed, showed him knife fighting, sharpshooting, and _this_ is how her perfect creation of the Lazurus Pit, her soldier set to kill the Batman, is going to die.

The Red Hood, who came back and ran Gotham's drug cartels, made it safer, soaked up rival gangs into his own, saving people, killing Nazis, and relearning the years he'd lost to the Pit. Red Hood, who heroes can't decide if they trust and villains can't decide of they hate, far more skilled and deadly than people are comfortable with. Jason Todd, who is still fifteen, deep down, who died and never really got over that.

His clock has finally wound down. And it's wound down to execution for a crime he actually didn't commit. He can't count the number of times he'd nearly died, all infinitely cooler and less anti-climatic than this. What about the time he got caught in the middle of an Irish Mob infiltration? What about the poison fish in Morocco? What about the time Bruce had beat the shit out of him? Nope. Neck, meet axe blade. This is how he dies. 

Jason watches passively as Dick resumes his pacing. He thinks of all the things he never got to say to Bruce: _you're a bastard, I hate you, the moment I died might've been the best of my life because it freed me from you, I think your outfit is a complete travesty at all times._ He thinks of all the people he's leaving behind, and oh fuck, he promised Roy he'd take Lian for two weeks in September. Check that off his to-do list.

They won't tell him where they put his holsters or his guns, and he feels rather naked without them. Dick assures him that his Hood is back in their room in the palace, but that's only a small comfort. His knives are missing, some shuriken, and a few of his poison vials. He has no idea how long he was out, or how they knew where all his weaponry was, or who actually killed Min Starak, as much as he's been thinking about it.

"How do you not remember Friday?"

"Um, let's see, let's try... by not remembering it! I'm drugged or some shit, tell them to take a piss test. I did not kill Min, Dick, you have to believe me. I had no reason to." Jason grips the bars of the cell and tries to appear as sympathetic as possible. "Please."

Dick looks at him for one long moment, and Jason feels suspended in time. It's not hard to get Dick to care, shit, he practically leaks empathy out of his pores. It's more that Jason's worried about whether or not Dick believes him. Dick steps close to the cell.

"We're not leaving this planet without you," he whispers, and as solemn as that promise is, it's as good as a hundred bucks to Jason.

There's a sound at the end of the corridor, and Dick and Damian's heads whip toward it. Dick's face hardens into that familiar Nightwing scowl and a Pelorian guard appears with his spear. He says something to them, gesturing for them to get away from Jason.

"What?" Dick asks. "No, just a little longer."

The guard says something else.

"He's my brother!" Damian interrupts. "You can't just drag us off! We are conversing! I don't care about dinner!"

Dick sighs. The guard keeps talking, gesturing, and Jason really fucking wishes he could understand what's going on.

"Okay," Dick eventually says. "Just let us say goodbye." The guard nods, and a little tinge of fear slides down Jason's neck and settles firmly between his shoulder blades. Are they leaving permanently? Is Jason going to die? Dick turns back to him. "We're being summoned to have dinner in the council chamber. We're probably going to talk about you. They'll let us come back later. Don't-- don't do anything stupid."

Dick and Damian step away, and the guard leads them back down the corridor. Damian looks over his shoulder at Jason, a long searching look, and Jason wishes the stupid masks weren't mandatory so he could see the kid's eyes. 

"Stupid's my middle name," he says softly, stepping away from the bars.

He lays down on the cot and looks up at the ceiling. He's mentally compiling a list of suspects regarding Min's murder. There's only one name on the list. ( _Me ?_ ) Min was universally loved by the Mainland Pelorians, one of the few people who could reach across the lines between Islanders and Mainlanders. Killing him would've been an act of international war, unless... you framed an off-worlder for it.

Jason had been following Min around for a bit, attempting to learn as much as he can. He's been jotting notes down on a tablet that updates to Barbara's computer when one of the satellites lines up just right, although text messages send faster and more frequently than any other contact.

It's the same reason they can only contact home once every two weeks, an hour video chat before it puts out. The distance between Earth and Pelorian IV is so vast that contact is incredibly limited and only accessible through the technology that only NASA or Batman possesses. Jason's tablet is sitting on the table in the chamber that connects his, Dick's, and Damian's rooms in the palace. It's right next to his Hood, Jason can see it in his mind's eye, clear as day.

Jason's always been good at school, he liked it when he could go. He liked books and plays, and other stuff, probably, too. The problem with the memory of the Pit is that it overshadows his memory of everything else. There are few things from before that he can recall with any accuracy, and he's not sure that he'd want to.

But yeah, Jason's always been a good learner.

***

Jason's dozing off, half asleep under his mask, when the clanging returns. There's some slamming too, and then, "You're about to fucking die, do you know that?"

Angry. He sounds angry.

"It's nothing I haven't done before," Jason murmurs lazily.

Dick growls. "Will you fucking listen to me? We're about to botch an intergalactic diplomacy trip with a technologically advanced planet, and the Green Lanterns aren't even in the sect because they are dealing with an agency threat. We are on our own, and I'm sure if you survive this, you won't survive B."

"Who cares," Jason's not afraid of Bruce, not even when he had come back and first started stringing up criminals in Gotham, when Bruce had dropped in on him on a rooftop and broke his Hood with how hard he punched. Bruce has had opportunities to kill Jason, to put him away or catch him. He's never taken it before.

"I care!"

Jason opens his eyes and glances sideling at Dick. "Chill out, I have a plan."

"A _good_ plan?" Dick asks suspiciously, probably expecting Jason to say he's gonna build a homemade bomb out of his bootlaces and cot sheets. 

Jason rolls his eyes. "Yes, a _good_ plan."

***

Barbara pushes her glasses up her nose. Her hair is falling out of her ponytail in whisps and she looks annoyed, which is chiefly how she looks when she's dealing with him. Her freckles have faded, and the edges of her look blurry over the lightyears-distant connection, light static covers the screen and crackles every once in a while. Jason's pressed up against the cell, gripping the bars in his hands, peering through them to look at where Dick's holding up his own tablet, where Barbara is blinking down at them.

"So, you need a forgery."

"Yeah," Jason says. "That would be ideal."

"Wait, wait, wait," Dick interrupts. "What if they try to legitimize it? Try to call up your spouse?"

Jason rolls his shoulders. "They might. What do you suggest?"

Dick blinks at him. "Well, marry me."

The room is very, very quiet. He's glad Damian isn't here for this, because the unrelenting mocking would be insufferable. Jason's pretty sure he's blushing. His face feels hot, and there's sweat making its slow trek down his neck, sneaking under his collar. It's humid in jail, just like the climate outside. The Pelorians probably wouldn't make it five seconds anywhere under fifty degrees.

Dick's still staring at him, his shoulders are loose and his body is relaxed, but Jason can recognize when Dick's faking his calm. His neck is tense, the pulse point at his carotid is quick under his skin. Jason's mouth is very, very dry.

"I think this is stupid," Barbara says. "I mean, like, why the hell don't they afford everyone fair trials? Why just married couples? Seems a little bit incontinent for a socialist society."

"Um," Jason drags his attention from Dick. "It's trial by combat, ancient tradition. Murderers get executed unless they have family ties which, for a people that have no concept of adoption or DNA, means literally only marriage. I put it in the notes I sent you."

Barbara hums. Dick clears his throat. "You've been, ah, taking notes?"

Jason stares at him. "B didn't tell you he wanted reconnaissance?"

Dick tilts his head.

"Okay," Barbara interrupts. "I can forge a marriage certificate between Dick Grayson and, uh..." both Dick and Barbara look at him. Since he's legally dead, and reversing that is hard, Jason's string of fake identities are how he keeps himself attached to the normal world.

"Michael Osborne. He's a PHD student."

Barbara clacks away on her computer. "Our time is running down. So, your plan is to... what? Pretend to be married to buy yourself a fair... er. A trial by combat?"

"Which is ritualistic and will take some time to set up. Hopefully, we can track down Min's actual murderer in time for Jason to be exonerated."

"They're ancient, Oracle, not barbaric." Jason flexes his fingers against the bars. "Listen, you can... keep this a secret, right? And you can undo it when we get back to Earth?"

She nods her head and her ponytail bobs. "I can do my best on the secret part, but these documents will have to be public knowledge if we're faking legitimacy. When you get back I can undo it with a couple of taps. Anything else, boys?"

"Nope," Dick says. "Just that you're the smartest woman in the world and you are my heart and soul."

She flashes them a sharp grin, her Batgirl grin. "Aw, you flatter me."

The screen blinks dark. Jason leans back and sighs at the obsidian ceiling of the jail. Jason hasn't seen Barbara's actual face in years, not since before he returned, way back when he was Robin. He'd forgotten what she looked like, what she'd meant to Dick and Bruce. He misses Roy, suddenly, wondering what he'd say about the mess Jason's managed to get himself into. He misses Lian's little round cheeks, her happy gurgling laugh.

Dick's tablet beeps with a message. It's their marriage certificate, fancy and ornate lettering, gold trim around the edges. _Dick Grayson_ right next to _Michael Osborne,_ Jason's scribble signature lifted off another document, nonsense next to Dick's socialite handwriting. It's very, very real, Jason thinks, his mouth sticky and dry. But Barbara can undo it in a few moments.

He shifts his weight, drawing attention to all the aches he feels. His back, his legs, his arms, his throat. He feels exhausted and crummy.

"Michael Osborne?" Dick asks suddenly. Jason looks back at him with narrowed eyes.

"You're still here?"

"Yep," Dick says happily, sinking down onto the floor in front of Jason's cell. "Who's Michael Osborne?"

Jason flicks his eyes away from Dick. As far as Jason can tell, he's the only person in this area of the jail. There are very little sounds other than the noise that comes from the front of the building, which Jason doesn't remember seeing. No one else has come through here except Dick and Damian, and the guards that escort them.

"How long have I been in here?" he asks.

"Twelve hours. It's Sunday. Stop changing the subject."

Jason looks at him. He's relaxed now, this time for real. "Michael Osborne is my back-up plan. He's a completely clean identity, in case I ever had to quit being the Hood, or I was compromised or whatever. He's working on his PHD for English literature and attends NYU online courses. He wears polos and glasses and is incredibly mild-mannered. He's never even held a gun."

Dick wolf whistles. "Lucky me."

Jason rolls his shoulders. "Yep. His dick is big." He grins, lets his sharp canines show, and Dick tilts his head at him.

"Surely _I'm_ the bigger Dick."

"Is that why you make everyone call you that? So you can make stupid jokes?"

"You make stupider jokes."

"And you're supposed to be the adult," Jason tuts. 

They lapse into silence. There's a lot of things they haven't ever got around to saying to each other, Dick's Titans responsibilities or his Nightwing duties or his affection for the B neatly slices into any time they might have spent talking. Or, it could be the fact that Jason brick-walls Dick as often as he can. They haven't been close, not ever, but Jason's lingering hero-worship still makes him pick Dick every time, without fail. 

Dick shuffles on the floor. Jason sits down across from him, keeps his hands gripping the cell bars, sitting back on his heels. He licks the backs of his teeth, coming away with the garlic taste that's remained. He searches for something neutral, comes up empty, and gives in.

"How did dinner go?"

Dick leans back onto the palms of his hands. "It went... terrible. For you. They showed us the security videos of you entering Min's room, and being dragged out later by two guards. You were completely covered in blood."

"There weren't any cameras inside the room?"

"Why would they put a camera inside the room? That feels like... a violation of some kind."

Jason growls, frustrated, hands flexing on the bars of the cell. "So you can prove that off-world diplomats didn't murder a council member! That video is unreliable."

"It just _looks_ bad right now."

"The video's not real! I'm telling you, we're missing something big!"

Dick sighs. "Can we not fight? I'm tired of fighting with you."

"What, you still don't believe me?" he snaps. He's fucking wound all the way up, he hasn't pissed in twelve hours, hasn't eaten in more than that, and no one's brought him anything to drink. Jason feels a little woozy from the drugs still, and he's tired of Dick second-guessing him. Jason's been playing by the rules for a year now, and it's exhausting to constantly feel like an outsider when all he does is compromise. He takes a step toward the line, wanting to be welcomed back into the fold, and they move the line away.

"Jason! Will you just... fuck, okay. Yes, I believe you. Stop trying to fight everyone who cares about you, okay? I'm just... I'm being cautious, alright? We don't know you're being framed. You could've been mind-controlled, or drugged to be suggestible, or fucking anything. I'm a detective--"

"Oh!" Jason interrupts, hot irritation making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "You're a _detective_ , my bad. I should know better than to have _thoughts_ or _feelings_ around a detective. You'd think, having grown up with one, I'd have learned that by now, but there I go again, making the mistake of wanting someone to _believe me._ " his voice drips with sarcasm.

"You are so fucking--" Dick scrambles to his feet. "--you do this all the time! Stop fucking doing this!"

Jason stands up too, heart racing in his throat. "What the fuck am I doing?"

"You just _love_ to make it so fucking hard to care about you--"

"--Do I? Do I make it hard, or are you just not trying--"

"--Do _not_ act like I don't try for you! All I do is try for you! I've been trying since--"

"--Since, when? Since I _died_?" Jason stops, chest heaving. 

Dick's staring at him, eyes wide, mouth wet with spit, cheeks a magnificent blush under his mask. He's trembling minutely, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. He's very, very, still. It unsettles Jason, because Dick never goes this still, except for maybe when Bruce actually strikes a nerve during a fight. Jason knows Dick's got a lot of unresolved guilt about Jason's death, but he never thought that bringing it up would paralyze Dick like this.

"Do not," Dick says in a low voice, "Just... don't. You don't even remember it."

Jason doesn't. He can recall parts of it, most of the time with Bruce, some with Alfred. He's got chunks of his life before Robin, growing up in the Narrows, breaking out of Ma Gunn's and McDonald's cashiers slipping him free fries. He remembers Dick's unhappy face, the arguments, sparring with him even when Dick clearly didn't think he was good enough, awkward family luncheons. 

Rarely any of the happy memories made it. Jason used to think that his life had really just been all around pits, but recently he's started to think it was by design. That somehow, Ra's had only let the shitty parts survive in order to make Jason a brainwashed rage soldier. He thinks about sending the League a postcard: _Well it worked! Congrats! I don't have any happy memories and I'm frothing at the mouth ninety percent of the time!_ Although, Ra's might consider only ninety percent a failure. 

"You can't act like that hurts you more than it hurts me," Jason says softly.

Dick blinks at him. He runs his fingers through his hair. "I really don't think we can measure it. It's not a contest over who feels worse."

"It was my life!" Jason bursts out. "It was my fucking life that got ruined! I was fifteen, Dick! I was sitting in a warehouse for twenty hours, terrified out of my mind. It's the worst fucking thing that's ever happened to me. I was murdered."

"Then you came back."

"Then I came back to life as a brainwashed super-assassin," Jason agrees. "Which accounts for almost fifteen years of my life stolen from me! The first half I can't remember, the second half just fucking sucks... so if anyone shouldn't talk about it, it's fucking you."

"Are you serious?" Dick asks, incredulous. Jason's hands are starting to hurt from holding the bars of the cell so tight. "Do you think I didn't spend those years grieving? Do you think nothing fucking changed? I missed you--"

"--You did not--"

"We all fucking did! Ev--"

"--You replaced me!"

"You're not fucking over that? Jason, Tim adores you, he worshipped you so goddamn hard--"

"--It's not about Tim!"

"Isn't it?"

"Will you just fucking listen to me?" Jason snarls.

All his conversations with Dick end up like this. They never get anywhere, every little thing one of them says just looks like a grenade to the other, every single conversation about the old times turns into a fight about Bruce or the Robin mantle or Jason's guns.

Whatever, it's not like they were ever taught healthy communication, and besides, this usually works better for them anyway.

"I am listening! Jason, I've done nothing but listen but you never _say_ anything!"

"That just proves you don't listen, you--"

Dick's laughing suddenly, bent double and gasping. It takes the wind out of Jason's sails, the barking laugh that doesn't sound genuine, or like any sound Dick's ever made before.

"Is this fucking funny to you?"

Dick laughs harder. Jason doesn't know how to react, and if he keeps yelling he'll just feel stupid. It's eerily reminiscent of getting gassed by one of the Gotham villains, hysterical and unnatural. Dick tilts his head up, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks under his mask. Jason takes a step away from the cell bars.

"Uh, hey man. You take a funny turn somewhere?"

"It's just-- ah," Dick wheezes. "It's just-- this is our first fight as a married couple and it's--"

Jason doesn't know what to do.

"We're married! Oh my god, I'm married."

He wishes he could page Damian or something, just so he wasn't witnessing this mental breakdown on his own. Dick's still laughing, but it's losing steam. Jason refuses to join in, and eventually, Dick straightens up, half-smile still playing on his lips.

"So, that was weird," Jason tells him.

Dick shakes his head. "I need to go to bed."

For a long moment, Dick just looks at Jason. Jason knows that he's waiting for an apology, or a challenge, or something to continue the argument. Jason just lets the air between them settle. He clenches his hands into fists, unclenches them. He looks for words to say and finds none. He thinks of all the things he's said over the years, a tally of every single word he's spoken since he learned how. 

He tries to find something to say that isn't incriminating, or rude and can't. So he just tilts his head and stares right back into the white lenses of Dick's domino. He wishes he could see the blue of Dick's eyes, just so he could attempt to calculate what Dick's feeling. Not that he's ever been good at it, but the opportunity wouldn't be bad.

"Goodnight," Dick nods to him, and turns toward the end of the corridor.

Jason's gaze is stuck to Dick, and he follows the line of him until he's out of sight.

"I'll see you in the morning!" Dick calls over his shoulder, the noise of it bouncing off the obsidian walls. 

Jason feels very suddenly, very impossibly, lonely. It's not a nice feeling.

***

The guard slides the cell open with a disturbing slam. Jason jerks awake, up off the cot, and the guard grabs his arm and hauls him up. He stumbles to his feet and the guard pushes him. Jason slides, loses his footing, and slams his shoulder into the wall outside the cell as he drops to his knees. The guard grabs him under the armpit and drags him up. Jason's head is spinning and he's still groggy, dehydrated and weak. The guard shoves him again, and the whole process repeats.

They do this for a while, and Jason notes that the guard doesn't take him out the way Dick and Damian usually enter, instead turning down a corridor along a row of cells Jason hadn't seen from his. They end up underground, or maybe further underground, in a tunnel that looks like the concrete ones on freeways, the ones that run through hills and mountains. It's completely empty, and seems to stretch both ways for miles, lit up by florescent strip lights mounted onto the sides of the tunnel in one unbroken line. The guard nudges Jason, making him step onto one of those shuttle things Jason had seen on the Pelorian walkways, a flat board that hovers inches above the ground and serves as a sort of car. Come to think of it, the only kind of traffic Jason has seen on Peloria IV is the foot kind.

The guard stands behind him, close enough that it makes the whole ride uncomfortable. He screws his eyes shut and tries to keep the bile rising in his throat from exiting his body in a less than attractive matter. He's actually kind of glad he wasn't wearing his Hood when this whole mess had started to go down. Jason's thrown up in the Hood before. It's not good.

The shuttle jerks to a stop and Jason is unprepared for the movement and he sways, stumbling off and tripping onto the ground, his knees hitting hard on the concrete and bruising. Vertigo makes the world spin too fast and Jason thinks _so much for that_ and hacks up onto the ground, bile souring his mouth. The guard grunts, a disgusted noise, and pulls Jason to his feet again. Jason groans, sore muscles and wobbly stomach protesting at the manhandling.

He realizes, belatedly, that they're back in the palace, and that the big ornate doors are the doors to the council chamber, which Jason only knows because he was friends with Min. There are two female Pelorian guards at the doors, who swing them open for Jason and the guard escorting him. He catches a glimpse of the ornate lights in the council room before the guard pushes Jason, hard this time, propelling him forward and into the chamber too quickly. Jason sprawls onto the ground, thinks _Don't I look good,_ and is promptly stabbed in the neck with a translator.

Gingerly, Jason pushes himself up, gets his knees under him, and stops in a kneel, head spinning. He thinks about getting to his feet, but his head rolls in protest and he has to swallow more bile. He's got either a concussion or a seriously wicked magical concoction of a hangover.

"The Red Hood," a deep, rumbly voice echoes in the chamber.

Jason looks up. It's Fiar De'en Léa, speaking at the head of the Mainland council. He's sitting in Min's chair. Jason's head hurts.

The council room is a giant, circular chamber, with a table of seven high seats at the opposite end from the doors, elevated a story up above the floor. At the center is the Fiar's chair, a Pelorian word for "president" or something equivalent, however the fuck councils work. Jason's head feels like he's been rolled through a cement mixer so he's not up for nuance. There are three more chairs on each side of the Fiar, all different colors of the Mainland tribes. To Jason's left, near the doors, is a box for foreigners to sit. The room is full of a quiet murmur from the small crowd sitting at the public seats at ground-level.

He glances to the side, and Dick and Damian are standing amongst some Pelorian Islanders in the foreigner's box, wearing council robes and their masks, looking down at him, twin expressions of nothing. They're good at that, disappearing behind the masks. Jason tries not to be too bitter about it.

"You are being charged with the murder of Min Ra Starak," De'en continues. "You will be sentenced to death. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

The room falls into a hush. Jason blinks hard behind his mask, feels the sweat on his scalp start to roll down his forehead.

"Yeah," Jason's voice comes out scratchy and thick. "I'm married."

The murmuring starts again, the sounds people shifting around in their seats, fabric swishing gently in the echoing chamber. Before Min had died, he had introduced Jason to De'en. De'en had come off as sensible, deeply attached to tradition, respectful, and wise. He had been fond of Min, as everyone was, but in a way that spoke of childhood friends, like De'en was used to Min's exuberant personality, his zest for life and dogged pursuit of justice. De'en looks down at Jason now, with nothing in his face.

The council sits unmoving for some time, and the people start to get louder. Jason considers risking another glance at Dick and Damian, but decides against it, instead focusing on keeping all his guts inside. 

"And to whom are you married?" De'en asks eventually.

"To me," Dick butts in, stepping forward from the crowd in the box.

Everyone swings around to look at him, pavlovian. Jason wants to snarl at him to sit down and shut up. The other council members are looking at each other, expressions baffled, as the volume in the chamber rises again.

"As you can see," Jason says loudly, cutting through all the other noise, "I have a spouse. As per your traditions, I'm entitled to a chance at survival."

De'en clears his throat. "So, The Red Hood. You are unioned to... Mr Nightwing? And you are demanding a standard trial by combat?"

"Yeah," Jason grits out. The back of his neck is soaked in sweat.

"You are aware what Min Ra Starak meant to all of Peloria IV, yes?"

"Of course. And I want to challenge that, too. I'd like to make it clear that I didn't murder Min."

The room falls silent. Jason feels shitty and nauseous, and he really wants to lay down. De'en blinks at him, like Jason's truly confusing, a Rubix cube of a puzzle.

"You are clearly shown in a security camera entering his room and exiting bloody, moments after his murder. You are contesting this? You come to our court and demand a trial, demand a chance at survival after murdering our beloved Fiar, and now you question our security? Our integrity? How bold, my dear Red Hood, that you would level such accusations at a court that has been nothing but hospitable to your Earthling diplomacy."

"I didn't do it," Jason insists. His vision blurs. This has to end soon. "Do you accept my terms?"

There's a beat, where no one moves, no one says a thing, where Jason thinks he's going to pass out. 

"Yes," De'en's voice booms. "We accept."

***

The guards clear the chamber out, so it's just the high council, the Island diplomats, Dick, Damian, and Jason left. Jason remains in the center of the room on his knees, dizzy and afraid that he'll keel over if he tries to stand on his own. Dick and Damian come down from the box and stand a few paces away. 

As soon as the big doors slam shut, locking out the Pelorian public, the chamber bursts into noise.

"You cannot seriously expect us to let a murderer roam free! Especially one who murdered Min!" one of the Islanders shouts from the box. Jason doesn't recognize him. "He's a danger to us all, allowing this-- this-- _tradition_ to be extended to the likes of him is complete heresy!"

"Calm down, Via Érbak. Min would want us to remain hospitable--" De'en says.

"How would you know what Starak would want?" one of the women from the box yells. "He's been killed and you're about to let the man who did it roam free!"

"Please," one of the council members interrupts. Jason recognizes him as Lhorjen Basis. He's from the part of the mainland closest to the volcano, and has that particular air of charisma that reminds Jason of Lex Luthor or some smarmy politician. "Let's not allow our emotions to cloud our conscience. Think of what Min would say if he were here. He'd ask us to honor tradition, to honor our laws, and respect the union between Mr Nightwing and The Red Hood, and to carry on as best we can. Min would not want us seeking blind vengeance. He was friendly with The Red Hood, and had reason to respect him. We should trust his judgement, even if he isn't physically here."

"Without Min, our negotiations are tabled," the first Islander speaks again. "He was the stepping stone to a great era of peace on our planet. How could you allow his murderer a chance to go free?"

"It's law," De'en says. "I have no right to go above the law, I am not a God."

"If you do not bring Min justice we will take it as a sign of ill will. Negotiations will not just table, they will halt." the Islander says, voice steady. Around him, his constituents shift uncomfortably, like they're not entirely on board with that.

Jason's with them. It's weird being talked about like he's not even there. They hadn't even discussed a plan B in case the Pelorians decide to put Jason to death. That's probably on purpose, Dick's a think-on-the-fly type.

"Are you threatening me?" De'en demands, voice sharp and angry.

"No," the Islander says quickly, "No threat. A warning. What you choose to do with this man, how you choose to proceed, will spell out the fate for the peace negotiations. It could cause disaster."

"No one is claiming that the Islands are unimportant, and we are not allowing Min's death to be idly forgotten! We are bound by honor to uphold the law!"

"We should vote," the Islander says petulantly.

De'en tilts his face up toward the ceiling and sighs. "Alright. All in favor of upholding tradition?"

Everyone raises their hands except for the Islanders and two councilmen. Dick raises his too. Jason rolls his eyes, Damian jabs Dick viciously in the ribs. De'en nods, satisfied.

"Majority vote," he says. "Tradition will be honored."

"But--" the Islander starts.

De'en holds up his hand. "Please, no more. Mr Nightwing, we will need to see proof of your union to The Red Hood. If everything is in order, then you all will retire to your chamber with an armed guard standing watch outside. You may attend dinners, but The Red Hood cannot. The Red Hood will need to travel with an armed escort, he will need to--"

"Sure, yeah, whatever," Jason butts in. He's tired of being spoken about like he's not sitting right here, and his knees hurt from kneeling on the marble floor, another ache to add to his vast collection. "Can we just... I'm tired."

Dick pulls out his tablet and taps on the icon that brings up their marriage certificate. Belatedly, and with an impending sense of doom, Jason realizes they probably could have just put any two random names down on an official-looking paper and moved on. He closes his eyes and sighs.

"I am going to have to ask you to keep this confidential," Dick says, still holding the tablet as De'en makes grabby hands for it. "Our secret identities are on it."

De'en nods. "Of course." he takes the edge of the tablet and pulls. Dick holds on, and the tiniest of struggles ensues, De'en tugging jerkily and Dick holding on with a vice grip. When Dick finally relinquishes his hold, De'en teeters backward minutely from the leftover momentum. Jason cracks a tired grin.

De'en clears his throat, smoothes out his robes with one hand, and hands the tablet over to a servant hovering over his shoulder. "You may return to your chambers for now." he starts toward the big doors, his entourage trailing behind him.

Immediately, Dick, Damian, and Jason are descended upon by guards. Two of them drag Jason to his feet, holding him suspended between them. Jason stumbles, dizzy, and keeps his gaze firmly on the ground while his vision whites out.

Someone's lifting his head, their fingers gripping his chin. For a second, Jason's transported back to the warehouse, beaten and bloody and half-dead, the Joker's hands on him, that mean laugh like he'd just said something funny after he'd spit up blood. Jason jerks away.

"Hey now," a soft, accented voice sounds. It's Lhorjen, his round, pudgy face, eyes wide with reassurance. "I just wanted to let you know that you've got people here who wish you the best, good luck, and the sincerest hope that you prove yourself innocent. I'm sure the task will be... challenging, to say the least. You are the determined one."

Jason blinks at him. Lhorjen chuckles. "I-- you--"

"Now, now, don't make yourself sicker. There can be some nasty germs in those holding cells. Take care of yourself, The Red Hood." Lhorjen steps away and rejoins the procession following De'en out. Jason watches him, the cold calculating of his shoulders, the soft syllables of his words.

Dick takes up his field of vision moments later, taking his weight from the guards and helping him stumble back toward their chambers. Jason thinks, _fucking goddammit shit._

***

"It's Lhorjen," Jason says, pushing away from Dick and into the room. "I swear to God, Lhorjen killed Min. I know it."

"You don't know that," Dick says. He reaches up and pulls off his domino mask.

Behind him, Damian does the same, sliding the chamber door shut, locking the Pelorian guardsmen out. Jason's fingers itch. 

"I do!"

Sensing another impending argument, Dick kneels down, places a hand on Damian's shoulder and says in a low voice, "Why don't you go to your room. You should email Jon." he straightens up and faces Jason, Damian lingering at the threshold of his door and the living chamber, watching them with avid interest. "Could you, for a second, entertain the idea that not everyone is being sarcastic when they're nice to you?"

"You're such a fuckface," Jason snarls. "He wasn't being nice."

"He was!"

"He told me that he hopes I prove myself innocent. It was such an obvious taunt!"

"Maybe he does actually hope you're innocent!"

"And why would he hope that? If I am, there's a good chance that civil war between Islanders and Mainlanders will ensue, no one would want that unless they had the specific goal of creating a power vacuum--"

"Not everything is a conspiracy!"

"I didn't say that's what was going on! Fuck--" Jason blanches, head spinning like he'd just rode the Soarin' Eagle at Coney Island after devouring fifty bucks of cotton candy. He drops, heavy, onto the loveseat. Dick blinks at him, a worry wrinkle forming between his brows as he assesses Jason.

"Hey, Jay, you good?" he asks, voice soft and concerned.

"Ugh, just need water. Don't think I've forgotten I'm fighting with you."

Dick laughs, the soft sound of it nothing like yesterday's cackle. He picks up a pitcher and a cup sitting on the coffee table and pours it. There's the slide of Damian's boots whispering against the floor, then the soft thud of him shutting his door, bored now that there's no fighting to observe. Dick hands him the glass of water and Jason gulps at it gratefully. He downs it all, and comes up for air, gasping, and Dick smiles at him, dopily.

"Thirsty?"

"Fuck you," Jason says hoarsley. "Can we get room service?"

Dick rolls his shoulders. "I'll see. You should shower."

Jason stands and his whole body cracks as he stretches. He steps over to the pitcher and picks up the whole thing and begins to drink from it. Dick watches him openly, eyes tracing his body. Jason refuses to be self-conscious, puts the empty pitcher down, and goes into his room without looking back. He rips off the domino mask, finally, reveling at the cool air on the bridge of his nose, against the sweat that's gathered under his eyes. He sheds the bloody clothes like an old skin, leaves them crumpled and stiff on the floor.

The bathroom in his room is giant, ornate, and plush. It's the most fantastic thing he's ever seen, and even though Jason has his issues with wealth and his own weird hang-ups regarding soft beds, he absolutely appreciates fancy bathrooms. He turns on the hottest setting for the water and regrets it immediately, hissing in pain when he reaches out with his index finger to test it. He jerks back and twists the knob to a cooler setting. Better not play 'who's hotter' with aliens that live on a volcano. 

He showers, the hot water pounding his sore shoulders, relaxing his joints and washing away the worst of his pain, the dried blood crusted under his fingernails and the grease in his hair. He gargles, spits the garlic taste down the drain, and washes his hair. He usually spends five to eight minutes in a shower, ice-cold water, dries himself with the same towel every time, and goes on his way with extra-strength deodorant.

But he's been framed for a murder, he can indulge.

He finds Dick sitting on his bed, two silver trays piled high with food balanced precariously next to him. Jason hadn't been expecting this, and freezes, dripping a puddle onto the carpet of the room.

"Uh," he says, and wishes he had brought the fluffy towel sitting on the drying rack with him.

"D-d-d--" Dick stutters, face flushing lightly. He doesn't look away, drags his eyes down Jason's cock, his bare torso, the autopsy scars. "Sorry. Um."

"I will..." Jason steps back, reaching for the bathroom door. "I'm just--" he clicks it shut and breathes out. He leans over the sink, waits for the embarrassment to subside somewhat, and finds the courage to look his reflection in the eyes. "You idiot," he tells the Lazarus in his gaze. "Wear a towel." he comes back out, this time with a towel, and takes a moment to look at the pattern on the carpet (diametric, linear and organized, brown and muted gold and orange) before he looks at Dick's face.

Dick doesn't look like anything's rattled him, or like anything's happened at all. Jason decides to be grateful that there's no teasing, or discussion about private... things, because he would honestly rather die by execution than put up with any of Dickie's attempted older-brothering.

But Dick is looking at him, eyes soft and whispery, mouth pursed. "I didn't know the scars stuck," he says, and his voice is so gentle, so kind, Jason shouldn't take it as an act of war. He straightens involuntarily anyway, face hardening. Wounds healed and scars that never faded. Dick sucks in a sharp breath, catching the expression on Jason's face. He looks away. "I was thinking: you're right about the war," he says, killing the moment and burying it, "the power vacuum thing. Min had been attempting peace accords, better treaties than any other predecessor had been willing to offer. So if Islanders did want to kill Min, why would they do it?"

"They didn't," Jason says, jerking his head to the side, sharp and violent in his movement, still rattled from Dick looking at the scars and caring.

"Humor me. If they did, why? Are they hoping that someone else would take his place? Maybe someone who's more of a pushover? De'en isn't that, and you saw how those Islanders reacted to him."

Jason eyes the food on the bed. He weighs the pros of a full stomach against the cons of getting near Dick. 

"So if it wasn't them, and it was someone on the Mainland: who? Why? Is killing Min a good strategy? What do Mainlanders gain from war with Islanders?" Dick continues, gaining enthusiasm and speed. "These people are socialists, so what's the real agenda? And why are the Lantern Corps so adamant Earth play nice with this planet?"

His stomach grumbles. Food wins, so he heads toward the bed and picks up the thing closest to him, sniffs it, and puts it in his mouth. It's tastes like a plum, sweet and juicy, and the skin breaks easily under his teeth, round and comfortably heavy in the palm of his hand.

"Are you listening to me?" Dick demands.

"No," Jason answers truthfully. The juice is dribbling down his chin. "Mmm. This is good."

Dick watches him. Jason finishes the fruit (no seeds, no pit) and picks up something else. It crunches between his teeth, like a pork skin, a rough texture against his tongue. It has a tang to it, a chicken-like taste. He tries another thing after that, a handful of berries -- apparently universally recognizable -- and then picks up what looks like a precarious sandwich. He crunches into it and like three things drop out onto the silver tray.

It tastes like cheesecake and roast beef, and isn't so unappetizing he stops eating, but is also super weird. Pelorian food has always been an adventure, but in the dining hall they'd tried to make it Earthling-friendly, a courtesy he's obviously forfeited after supposedly committing murder.

Jason eats the crust, licks the pads of his fingertips, and looks up at Dick, who's smiling at him. Jason scowls, takes his hands out of his mouth and wipes them on his towel.

"Are you going to get dressed?" he asks.

Jason looks down. "Um."

"You don't have to," Dick says, and he's slid into that flirty voice, all pitched low and suggestive, lips parted and tongue running over his teeth, leaned back in just the way to be inviting.

Jason stares at him blankly. "No, I'm going to."

Dick doesn't move.

"Well? Get out."

"What?" Dick asks, incredulous.

"Get out."

Dick furrows his brows. "We're married."

"So?"

"So, we're married, and I can't see you naked?"

"No. Get out."

"I've seen you naked before."

"I don't care."

"We've had sex!"

"Get out of my room before I make you get out."

Dick stands up, all dramatic huff and pouty mouth. "Jesus Christ. You marry your adopted brother and he won't even show you his cock."

Jason makes a face. "Don't refer to me like that. We're barely family. Plus it's weird."

"I have weird ideas about family." Dick stops at the door. "You're still kicking me out to put clothes on?"

Jason stands up, crosses his arms, and glares at him. "Yes? What part of that wasn't clear."

"The reason."

Jason grits his teeth. Dick's just as irritating as Bruce is in terms of 'dog with bone is relentless to the point of alienating people closest to him' but he somehow knows how to do it in a way that gets under Jason's skin and makes him homicidal, not the way Bruce does, which is more like a spear piercing one of Jason's organs in a painful way. Maybe the metaphor is too messy, but, whatever, half his brain leaked out of his head on the floor of a warehouse thanks to a clown toting a crowbar. Metaphors are allowed to get weird.

"I don't wanna talk about the scars," Jason admits, because he fucking doesn't, and putting this boundary out there doesn't cost him anything.

It's true enough that Jason's fucked Dick before (heated argument, dark room, tension that overboiled. Jason had said _Let's not make this a habit,_ as he put his hood back on and climbed out the window of the empty nest, but it'd developed into one. Fight and then fuck.) but never with their clothes off, and never anything tender. That would've made it too real, that would've made it something they'd have to admit to themselves.

Ten minutes ago was the very first time Dick had seen Jason without his shirt since before his resurrection. Jason had thought the same thing the first time he stood shirtless in front of a mirror, haggard and broken and half-insane from the Pit, ungroomed and ten years older than the last time he'd seen himself, he'd saw the autopsy scars, the little J under the corner of his eye, carved there like a permanent teardrop, and thought _Well don't we look good._ The other scars are recognizable, fairly milquetoast for the vigilante life, but each with their own painful story behind them. 

Jason's never really been a guy for long emotional diatribes, and he sure as fuck doesn't want to explain the scars to Boy Wonder here for some big-brother-shit-for-pay-pity-points. He's fine. He's good. He's a rock. 

Dick blinks, like he's surprised that those things could be something Jason wouldn't want to touch on (the truth is that Jason never wants to talk about anything further back than when Lian was born. That's how Jason and Roy mark their lives, their New Beginnings, the date Lian was left on Roy's doorstep), that it could be an insecurity.

"I wasn't going to..."

"Dick, I saw it in your face. You can stay if you can promise they won't matter to you."

Dick bites his lip, nods, and leaves the room. Jason exhales when the door clicks shut, letting the tension leave his body. He dresses, black canvas cargo pants, black wool socks, black shirt. He has forty pairs of the same outfit ( _because it is serviceable, Roy! It works for almost every occasion except funeral, and even then it's like the bare minimum!_ ) and a bunch of domino masks packed into his go-bag, along with dozens of doubles of his usual arsenal. He repacks his jacket to bristle with weaponry but leaves it on the bed instead of putting it on. 

He exits the room and finds Dick sitting on the couch, going through Jason's tablet. He's playing sodoku. 

"What were you talking about earlier?" Jason asks idly.

"Oh, you mean when you weren't listening to me?" Dick says, all sass with no seriousness. He cuts his eyes toward Jason to gauge the reaction, and relaxes back into his game when Jason's face doesn't darken.

"I'll just go fuck myself then. God." he says back. He doesn't mean for it to sound as playful as it is. 

Dick looks up, a grin on his face, and he looks genuinely, openly, happy. Jason hasn't seen Dick without his mask or the cowl in a long time, never saw him crack a smile as Nightwing or Batman, and can't remember a single rendezvous where Dick had left... joyous. Dick walks light, his shoulders straight, his perfect posture and perfect balance, but if you know where to look (if you know how to look) you can see the exhaustion, the scar of grief that mars him. Jason's so used to Dick's face half-hidden, smiles that don't look quite happy, that he's caught off guard and just stares.

He stares too long.

"So," Dick breaks the silence. "Do you wanna talk about..."

Jason snaps back into his own head. "About...?"

"Min," Dick puts the tablet on the coffee table and stands. "Do you wanna argue out here? Because Damian's got a cup up against the door."

There's a beat, and Jason looks toward Damian's room. 

"No I don't," his little voice sounds muffled through the metal.

Jason looks back at Dick and nods toward his bedroom. He turns away and doesn't look to see if Dick's following.

The second the door shuts, Dick starts.

"We can't be sure you didn't kill him."

Jason immediately wants to throw something at the wall. "I know I didn't."

"Can't rule mind control out."

"How would they have done _mind control_?"

"In the translator. They plant these things inside our necks, Jay. We can't rule it out yet."

"I really think I should be the primary source on myself. I know I wouldn't do that."

Dick crosses his arms and just stares at Jason. "Can you?" he asks softly, dangerously. "I mean, look at your track record."

And Jason snaps. He cuts the distance between them in three short strides, grabs the collar of Dick's shirt, and pushes him against the door. Dick's hands immediately go to Jason's wrists, strong and ready to dislocate the joint. This could easily go either way: a fight or fuck. Dick would win, because a clear-headed fight against Dick has always ended in a draw, but he's always lost fights against Dick when he's angry and can't think. Jason stops, exhales through his nose, huffing like a bull about to charge.

Dick's eyes are dark and his pupils are blown wide.

It's probably bad if Jason conditions Dick to get horny in response to violence.

Dick tilts his head up, his mouth slightly open, like the tiniest of invitations. Jason resists, looks into the fathomless echo of Dick's half-lidded (super blue, like edges of the blu-ray DVD case blue, like Gatorade blue) eyes, and leans in, just a fraction. He exhales.

"You always do this," Jason says. "You know I want you. You always..."

Dick presses closer, brushes his mouth against Jason's. It sends a thrill down his spine, all-electric. "I want you."

Jason breaks.

He kisses Dick, slides his tongue against the backs of Dick's teeth, kisses him in a way that says _you knew me and you didn't, and you won't,_ all the fucked up ways Jason's learned to love (Bruce's gruff voice, his sparse affection, a butler who showed him how to ice desserts, a woman in a cave that taught him that sex is a weapon) and adds this to the list. They've done this before, yes, but never someplace with a bed. Never someplace either of them might have to be vulnerable.

That's the only thing he and Dick got in common these days, they've both got their armor. Dick's just better at hiding. He lets people think that they know him, lets people think he wears his heart on his sleeve, when it's really locked under seven feet of titanium and buried in the depths of his chest. 

Jason lets his hold on Dick's collar go, rubs his palm against Dick's ribs, the other sliding up to cradle his jaw, tilt his mouth for a different angle. Dick responds hungrily, hikes his leg up on Jason's hip, twists, and pulls himself up, like Jason's a jungle gym and Dick just wants to climb. Jason keeps him pressed against the wall, tucks a hand underneath Dick's thigh just in case he needs the support (he won't), and tugs the collar of Dick's shirt down to expose his skin. 

"You're infuriating," Jason growls into the junction of Dick's neck and shoulder. He throws his head back and moans, loud and shameless. "That really shouldn't turn you on." Jason admonishes.

He steps away from the wall, carrying Dick, not that he really needs to put any heft into it, Dick's wound his limbs around Jason and it looks like it'd take Superman to pry him off. He heads toward the bed at the same time Dick starts to try and pull Jason's shirt off, uncoordinated and needy. 

"Thought you were gonna die," Dick mutters, "All I could think about was how much I'd miss taking your clothes off."

Jason laughs. He can't help it, surprised and a little barking. He hears the stitches on his collar begin to tear, at the same time he realizes he misjudged the distance from the wall to the bed, and the toe of his boot catches on the edge of the rug placed strategically to trip up people going to bed. He pitches forward, dropping Dick unceremoniously onto the sheets. The momentum of Dick's body rips the collar of Jason's shirt, all the way to his navel, off the shoulder. 

"Wait--" Dick goes as he lands on the mattress. "Wait! The food!"

The tray clatters to the ground. They pause, looking at each other. Dick's eyes dance blue and pretty with amusement, smile playing at the bow of his mouth.

"Not it. You're cleaning that up." Jason informs him.

Dick reaches up, tugs on the tattered edges of Jason's shirt, legs still wound tight around Jason's waist.

"I'll live. Take this off."

Jason thinks that maybe they should come back to themselves, stop whatever they're doing and go back to Dick and Jason, sort-of sons of Bruce Wayne, indifferent to each other except for only sometimes. Jason's used to fighting, desperate rushed encounters in dark spots. He's used to arguing, trying to throw Dick off of rooftops, used to feeling hot and burnt up with fury. He's used to dropping to his knees, still in gear, only half in his right mind, hints of teeth and the suggestion of drawn blood. He isn't used to Dick tugging at his shirt, mouthing along the old gnarled autopsy scars, he isn't used to wanting with a slow burn.

Jason shrugs off what remains of his shirt and kisses Dick. It's different this time, less _you're an asshole_ and more _I want to kiss you._ Dick responds hungrily, like he's never been kissed like this, like he's throwing his whole body into Jason.

It's easy to take a step back, depersonalize the situation: _he's probably like this with everyone, he gives one-hundred-ten percent to everything he's ever done, why would this be different?_

It's easy to get angry about it too: _it's because he pities me, of course he does. Poor little Jason Todd, just needs to feel loved for once in his life._

But he doesn't want to. So, Jason lets himself think that this is just what it is. That for the first time, they can just... be. Not Jason Todd, the resurrected, with family issues and poor sense of boundary. Not Dick Grayson, Nightwing, and worse on both counts. They can shrug those skins away. Jason pries Dick's legs off himself and pops the button on Dick's jeans, pulling him off the edge of the bed as Jason drops to his knees and licks the bulge in Dick's underwear.

Dick groans, pushing his hips up into Jason's face.

Jason pulls Dick's pants and underwear down his thighs, glances up to see the line of Dick's throat as his head is tossed back, and then takes the brown head of Dick's cock into his mouth. He hollows out his cheeks, lets himself drool, and goes down. He groans at the taste of Dick's precome dripping onto his tongue, sliding down his throat. Dick jerks his hips up, and Jason takes the movement easily.

Dick looks back at Jason, eyes half-lidded, mouth swollen, red and shiny with Jason's spit. Slowly, eyes fixed on Dick's face, Jason slides his tongue against the underside of Dick's cock, presses the tip of his tongue along the veins, up up up until he's back at Dick's cockhead. He sucks on the head slowly, slides the flat of his tongue against it, licks at it like a lollipop. Dick whines, an attractive and needy sound. His hips jerk minutely, like he's trying not to buck up and ride Jason's face.

Jason shifts, ignoring his own straining erection, and goes back down, inch by inch, agonizingly slow. Dick's gasping, pleasant little sounds that make Jason groan, which makes Dick move his hips. The tip of Dick's cock rubs against the back of Jason's throat, so he slides back up even slower, dragging his lips against Dick's skin, careful of keeping his teeth away. Dick tastes heavy, thick and musky against Jason's tongue. He goes down slow again, and Dick makes a noise that's frustrated and turned on all at once.

He can already tell how this is going to end.

Dick's fingers slide their way into Jason's hair and tangle, gripping hard. Jason leans into the touch, moan rumbling suddenly and involuntarily. Dick inhales sharply and jerks his hips up.

"I like your white streak. Used to hate that you dyed it out. Hng-- so glad you stopped." Dick pants openly, his thighs widening as Jason hollows his cheeks. "It's very Frankenstein. I think about it when I -- _oh, fuck._ When I jerk off."

Jason hums.

"You feel really -- _unf_ \-- good," Dick says. Figures he'd be a talker. He doesn't usually, but _usually_ happens in under ten minutes after trying to kill each other on skyscraping rooftops. Jason's frame of reference is barely a frame of reference, but that doesn't mean Jason doesn't know what Dick likes.

"You're gonna fuck me, right?" Dick asks, and it catches Jason off guard.

He pulls away slowly, raises his eyes to meet Dick's. Dick's cheeks are dark red with a blush, but he holds Jason's gaze steady. It's pretty admirable.

"If you want me to," Jason says eventually. He tries not to think about how his voice sounds -- hoarse and used up, like he's spent thirty years straight smoking.

Dick turns his head, sliding his cheek against the sheets. "You think there's a chance I _don't_ want you to?"

Jason shrugs, because when it comes to Dick his instincts are all haywire and unreliable. He slides down so he can pop the button on his pants and keeps the eye contact. He wants Dick to be able to say no if he changes his mind, now or in ten minutes from now, or if he just gets scared of Jason. 

***

Dick's rubbing himself against Jason's back. The skin on his chest slides smoothly against the serrated edges of scars that mark where the morgue dressers had to stitch Jason's body back together from the explosion. Dick's half-hard against Jason's lower back, slight contented rumble emanating from his throat, rubbing his stubbled cheek on the wing of Jason's shoulder blade. It's a pretty nice way to wake up, all things considered.

"Mhm," Jason groans.

Dick licks the spot on the back of Jason's neck where his cervical column meets the thoracic. Jason immediately pops a boner.

"Morning," Dick whispers. "You smell good."

Jason rolls over, flat onto his back, and attempts to tug Dick on top of him. "Smell like sweat. And dried cum." limbs flail awkwardly, and Jason gives in and cracks open his eyes to coordinate them better. Dick rolls, narrowly avoiding kneeing Jason in the groin, and throws his leg over Jason's hip. Jason hooks his hands in the crooks of space behind Dick's knees. The lights are still on -- dim and golden, almost like a glow from a fire -- so Jason drinks in Dick's face.

He's got pillow wrinkles on his cheek, dried drool in the corner of his mouth, and the tiniest, most self-satisfied smirk in the world on his stupid stubbled face. His hair is sticking up in places, and he sits on Jason's thighs like he's astride a noble steed. He is the most gorgeous thing Jason's ever seen, and one of Jason's best friends is an Amazonian princess.

"And morning to you, too," Dick says happily, dragging a finger along a vein in Jason's cock.

He sucks in a sharp breath, flexes his thighs, and curls his toes. He feels lightheaded. "Not funny," Jason tells him.

Dick's cock bobs in the air, eyes darkening. "You've got morning voice."

"You've got annoying-syndrome. Bad news: it's incurable. And probably terminal."

"Probably?" Dick asks innocently, playing with the head of Jason's cock like he's a curious first-timer. 

"Ngh. Depends on how long it takes you to sit on my dick."

Dick gives him an experimental tug. "Could right now," he whispers. "I woke up before you. I wanted you. I started to play with myself so you could do me, first thing."

An electric current has been applied directly to Jason's heart. He's not breathing. He closes his eyes and lets out a sound that's not really anything, almost a whine.

He tightens his hands on Dick's legs and thinks about that image: Dick laying beside Jason, quietly reaching for the lube, slicking himself up and trying not to make a sound, pressing his front against Jason's back, thinking about Jason fucking him. Fantasizing about Jason. He looks up, into Dick's (blue, like the sky through the top hole in a circus tent, like painter's tape, like the color Jason would see when he thought of _freedom_ , like the dark swirl-pit of the deep end at the YMCA's pool) eyes.

"Fuck," Jason croaks out.

Dick's giggle is low and amused. "You like that?"

"Fucking," he growls. "Get my dick wet and get on top of me."

Dick's eyebrows flicker. "Bossy."

"What, and you're mad about it?"

Dick laughs again. He leans down, presses his morning-breath sour mouth against Jason's. Jason opens his mouth hungrily, licking Dick's lips, his teeth, the roof of his mouth. Jason licks Dick's tongue, and groans when Dick licks back. Dick pulls away, a string of spit stretching between them.

There's 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://jakowic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
